Total Breakdown
by St. Danger
Summary: After Luke tells Jess he has to go in season 3, he obeys. But he stops to have a mental breakdown in his home city in the middle of the night. And there is no one there to comfort him. But by morning, maybe he’ll have something to comfort him. oneshot


**Title:** Total Breakdown  
**Author:** Za Webmaster Authoress  
**Posted On:** January 28th, 2008  
**Summary:** After Luke tells Jess he has to go in season 3, he obeys. But he stops to have a mental breakdown in his home city in the middle of the night. And there is no one there to comfort him. But by morning, maybe he'll have something to comfort him. (oneshot)  
**Rated:** T  
**Rated For: **Thoughts of suicide, swearing, angst, self-mutilation, attempted suicide, the usual.  
**Notes:** I was watching season 3 of _Gilmore Girls _on DVD, and I was watching the episode where Jess leaves, and I was thinking of Chris Halliwell from _Charmed_, and I was like "MENTAL BREAKDOWN!" Because, I know that there is no way you can have absolutely nothing, and NOT have a complete and total mental breakdown. I mean, come on, how could you not at least crash and burn for a few minutes? I would totally freak out. Well, rant done, ENJOY! I usually stick to darkness/angst in the _Charmed_ fandom, always Chris-centric. But I love Jess, he has got to be one of my favorite characters of all time. And I love Milo, he's just so amazing. And hott. Did I mention hott? Gotta love eye-candy.

**Total Breakdown**

I am sitting here, on this stupid bench, in this stupid park, in this stupid city, in this stupid state, in this stupid country, on this stupid planet.

And I am alone. I have my backpack and my duffel bag, filled with some clothes, some travel-sized toiletries, my favorite or prized books, some non-perishable foods, some money, and some other random crap. The stuff I need.

But I'm alone.

"I'm fucking alone." I mutter, cradling my head in my hands. It's night, and I'm lucky I haven't been mugged. This is New York City after all, and Central Park isn't exactly known for being totally safe from harm.

This is my biggest screw-up, the screw-up that means my fucking life is now fucking ruined. I have no home, barely any money, no diploma, no girlfriend, no nothing. Nothing that matters. I have some useless possessions.

I can't believe I just left like that. I left Rory. How could I leave her? I love her.

But... I don't think she loves me as much as I love her.

I can't do this, I don't know what to do. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with the rest of my twisted, screwed-up life, and all I hear from people is that I had better find out or I'm gonna be one of those bums I see on the streets, selling whatever they can pickpocket and too stoned to even see straight! I have no place to go! My mom's a fucking whack job so she can't take care of me, there's no way in hell anyone in Stars Hollow is gonna put me up, and I have no job to pay for an apartment. Worst of all, I can't even go to Luke because he's the one who kicked me out!

Why did I skip school? Because I'm a frick'n moron, that's why. I'm a damned moron who's life is fucked up beyond all repair.

FUBAR. Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

I heard that on the streets once. I also heard SNAFU. Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. And then there's FINE: Fucked up Neurotic Insecure Emotional.

Right now, I'm more FINE than I've ever been before.

I guess I'm too wayward for my own fucking good. Damn it, I really wish I could just... Disappear. Vanish off the face of this Earth, give up on this life. My hands spring to life, and I unzip my duffel bag. I rummage around and pull out my switchblade. I flip it open, the metallic blade a flash in the moonlight.

I wonder, what if...

I roll up my sleeve a little, and slash across my wrist, on the verge of my palm. Blood suddenly spills through, and begins to flood from the wound, and some of it drips to the grass below. It stare at what I've done for a few moments, numb and completely thoughtless. A small little nagging voice in my head questions why there isn't any pain. But there just isn't. No pain, just numbness as crimson blood begins to pool on the ground, turning almost black under the cover of night. The moon shines off of it, flashing every time a new drop falls into it's eerie mirror.

I guess I'm darkly poetic tonight. It's from too much reading.

I roll up the sleeve on my other arm and switch my blade to my other hand, and I repeat the swiping motion with scary fluidness. I repeat the motion a few more times, barely a quarter of an inch apart on each wrist until I have three cuts on each wrist. The blood is really pouring, pooling around my shoes.

"I give up." I whisper to myself.

I sit there, watching the flood flow from the six cuts until I must be sitting with a liter of it at my feet, for at least ten minutes. Then I start to feel lightheaded, and I suddenly snap out of it. I yelp in horror and leap to my feet, dropping the switchblade. It hits the ground with a small _'clink'_ and becomes engulfed in the blood.

My blood.

"My blood," I whisper, staring at the slashes, the slashes I did to myself, the blood – _my blood!_ – my blood that it pooled at my feet, my switchblade that helped me do this, the numbness, there is still NO PAIN, I'm just a little lightheaded, and, and, and, and –

Oh my god I just tried to kill myself.

"I just fucking tried to kill myself." I whisper, my breathing becoming rapid and heavy. I look down to the pond of blood and yelp again, leaping to the side and stumbling back away from the blood. I start to shake violently, gasping for air.

"I just tried to kill myself, I just _fucking_ tried to kill myself, I JUST FUCKING TRIED TO KILL MYSELF!" I start off low, but at my third repetition of my past actions I'm shouting and grabbing at my head. I fall to my knees, staring at my shaking hands. I kneel down, staring and gasping for air. It takes me another ten minutes to regain my composure. I leap to my feet, pick up my bloodied switchblade, shove it back into my duffel bag, and use a pillowcase that I must've stuffed in by accident to stop the bleeding. I rip the pillowcase in half and wrap it around my wrists. I sit back down, cradling my head in my hands and trying to make sense of the voices in my mind all screaming at me.

I'm crying, I think. Hot, salty tears are sliding down my face and onto the ground. After a few moments, I begin to sob, my shoulders racking uncontrollably, and I fall back on my ass. I sob for an hour, till I can no longer cry anymore. I wipe away my tears, breathing deep.

Crying felt good. The cutting felt good.

And for some reason, I'm sort of okay with both of those things feeling good.

I wait for the bleeding to stop and for the scabs to form. They already have, I realize, and I carefully peel off the cloth. Gah, these wounds look horrible. I take a deep breath and put away the bloodied cloth, and pull out two wristbands. I put them on, so no one will know. Well, not that anyone would care.

Nobody cares.

I walk around the city till I find a public restroom. I wash off the blood on my hands, wrists, and arms. I splash warm water in my face, and make myself look more presentable. Well, at least like I wasn't crying. I steady myself on the sink, trying to keep the room from spinning. I splash icy cold water on my face to wake me up and make my decision.

"I'm going to California." I mutter, and leave.

I go back to the bench, and lay down, using my bags as pillows. I doze off for about a half an hour every five minutes, but sometimes the sight of my blood and my tears mixed together and beginning to dry on this earth keeps me awake, eyes wide and alert, thoughts racing in my mind in a whirl. I accept what I did. And I lay for about an hour, staring at the stars and the moon, thinking and thinking. When the sun begins to rise, I get up, stretch to work out the soreness in my muscles, and grab a notebook and a pen out of my bag. I write something down, rip out the paper, and fold the paper. I put it in my pocket. Every time things get bad, I'll take out this paper.

I'll read it, and remind myself of what happened this night.

**My name is Jess Mariano. I recently tried to commit suicide, and almost succeeded. My life is fucked up. I have nothing. I have no future. Things can't get much worse for me. **

**But I'm sure as hell not going to give up. Not now, not ever.**

_**Suicide is not an option. Not for me.  
**_

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_**Reviews would be loverly my readers. I LOVE YOU ALL, and thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. :) **_


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